I hadn't allowed myself to cry since Chiara died. In those last few weeks, I visited the hospital every day, though she barely spoke, dosed up on painkillers. We were in the middle of planning afterwards, what would happen when she did eventually pass, though never reached the end of it, because she couldn't hold a conversation without drifting off.
And now I was in the same position once again. Sobbing into my pillow, figuring out afterwards. Checking my phone, hoping I would receive a message, something to indicate a change of mind - though nothing came.
I woke up in the morning without a memory of falling asleep, eyes swollen and head aching from tears.
NEW IMESSAGE FROM 'CARLA'
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𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘢 & 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢
Today 01:13 AM
carla how'd it go?
carla bella?
Today 01:56 AM
carla text me asap okay?
carla i love you
carla good luck
I folded clothes away into my suitcase, piling away the memories; the outfit I wore when he first took my hand in Monaco, guiding us through the hotel away from his manager; the dress I had bought in Barcelona, the same night we slept together for the first time; the two McLaren hoodies I had stolen and never given back, all because they were tainted by his teakwood cologne. Eyelids burning with every recollection, I turned away, finding a seat on the sofa and switching on the tv - a distraction.
I searched through the various channels - all in Hungarian - eventually stopping at the sports category. No second thought, I pressed the button on the remote.
The camera was focused on a Ferrari, the narrator speaking in that fast, auction-like voice. Then it switched, panning over a McLaren as it struggled to overtake a Haas. At the bottom of the screen, two names appeared; Kevin Magnussen and Oscar Piastri. My stomach curled.
Despite everything, I was rooting for him. Chanting in my mind that he could do this. And so he did, qualifying p14. A complete change to the practice session the day before.
Had I distracted him?
I dragged my hands over my face, raking my hair away from my forehead. Standing up, I scanned through the mess I had created, eventually finding my notebook and pen beneath a sweatshirt. Like with every song I constructed, it started out as some kind of mindmap, but then the words poured from my mind, unable to contain themselves. I flipped over the page, assembling the lyrics into verses.
